Read the first 3 chapters of The Residency!

Chapter 1 — Zara

Peter's left eyebrow twitches when he's about to make us money. It's a tell I've observed over ten years of albums, tours, and deals—an involuntary facial tic that's become my personal fortune barometer. Right now, that eyebrow is practically dancing as he spreads glossy presentation folders across my kitchen island like a blackjack dealer with a winning hand.

"Vegas, Zara. The Olympus. Athena Stavros is offering exclusivity, creative control, and a number that makes your last tour look like a dive bar residency in comparison." He slides another page across the marble countertop, his finger tapping a figure that contains more zeros than seems reasonable.

I pull my silk kimono robe tighter around me. "Vegas," I repeat, trying to imagine myself there, planted in one spot instead of the perpetual motion that has defined my existence for the past decade. "For ten months?"

Peter brushes an invisible speck from his Paul Smith suit. At fifty-three, he still looks like he just stepped off a GQ cover shoot—salt and pepper stubble meticulously maintained, fitness-obsessed physique hidden beneath casually expensive clothing. His green tortoiseshell glasses have become his trademark.

"Ten months where you sleep in the same bed every night," he confirms, removing his glasses to clean them with a microfiber cloth he extracts from his breast pocket. "Where you can keep actual food in a refrigerator. Where you might—and I'm spitballing here—possibly make a friend who isn't on your payroll."

The jab lands with pinpoint accuracy. Besides Peter I have exactly one friend I would classify as genuine, and she dates back to my college days.

"The money is impressive," I concede. "But I'm not exactly hurting for cash."

Peter resumes his pacing. "It's not just about the money. It's about positioning. Every A-lister is securing a Vegas residency these days. It's no longer where careers go to die—it's where they evolve. You perform four to five nights a week in a venue tailored to your show. The rest of the time? All yours." He spreads his hands in a gesture that encompasses the theoretical expanse of my potential free time. "Write. Create. Rest. Live like a normal human being for once."

I’m aware that my kitchen, with its panoramic ocean views and designer appliances I rarely use, is about as far from normal as one can get. Sometimes I still catch myself thinking of the two-room apartment where I grew up, my mother stretching rice and beans for days, where luxury meant the electricity stayed on all month.

"Does this Athena person usually make these offers personally?" I ask.

"No." There's a hint of pride in Peter's voice. "She doesn't. The Olympus is rebranding as the premier arts venue on the Strip. I know the timeline feels tight, but we've been in preliminary talks with The Olympus for over a year. The Palestra, their theater, completed renovations and she wants you for the grand reopening. She wants their first major residency to make a statement."

I stand and move to the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the Pacific like a screen. Three seagulls hover on the updraft, suspended in perfect equilibrium with the wind. I envy them—existing purely in the moment, without past or future to complicate the present.

"What's her angle?" I ask without turning around. "Casino owners don't just hand out creative control and astronomical paychecks without wanting something in return."

Peter's reflection appears beside mine in the glass. "She's building something," he says. "A legacy. Having you, Zara Nova, as her inaugural resident artist makes a statement to the entire industry."

I turn to face him. "So I'm a statement?"

"You're an investment," he corrects. "One that will pay dividends for both of you. Think about it—when was the last time you weren't exhausted?" He doesn't wait for my answer. "When was the last time you wrote something that wasn't on the back of a tour bus napkin between cities? When was the last time you dated someone?"

I flinch at that last one. My love life—or rather, the manufactured public version of it—has been a series of strategic relationships with appropriate men in appropriate industries for appropriate lengths of time. Entertainment lawyers. Film producers. Artists.

None of these arrangements have ever progressed beyond public appearances and the occasional goodnight kiss for the benefit of eager paparazzi. My team calls it "image management." I call it exhausting.

"The residency gives you stability," Peter continues, his voice softening. "It gives you space to figure out what's next without the pressure of globe-trotting and constant reinvention. Your friends and family could actually visit you instead of trying to intercept you somewhere between Tokyo and Berlin."

He has a point there. Jess, my friend from college, had her baby a few months ago. I've only seen my godson twice, both times jet-lagged and counting the hours until I needed to be somewhere else.

"I'm not sure Vegas is... me," I say, returning to the breakfast bar and the spreadsheet that outlines what my life could look like for the next year. I push a stray dark curl behind my ear. "I love the ocean. What if six months in, I'm climbing the walls of that suite?"

"Then you climb the walls in comfort until the contract ends," he says with a shrug. "But I don't think you will."

Peter has been with me since the beginning. He discovered me at a showcase in New York when I was twenty-one and too naive to realize how rare it was for someone of his caliber to take interest in an unknown. He's guided my career with a mixture of sharp business acumen and genuine care that transcends our professional relationship.

"The Olympus has a reputation for privacy and discretion," he continues. "They protect their VIP guests better than most venues."

"How soon would I need to decide?" I ask, reaching for the contract details Peter has brought.

"Stavros wants an answer within two weeks," he says. "She's got other artists interested, but you're her first choice." He hesitates, then adds, "I think this could be good for you, Zara. Not just professionally, but personally."

I flip through the pages, scanning the highlights—performance schedule, compensation structure, accommodations. The Olympus would provide a multi-room suite customized to my preferences, a dedicated staff, security, and enough perks to make a royal family blush.

"The creative control is real?" I ask, focusing on the clause that matters most to me. "Full autonomy over the show design, setlist, band selection?"

"Everything," Peter confirms. "Stavros was adamant about that. She doesn't want a watered-down version of Zara Nova. She wants the full experience. Her exact words were 'I'm not paying for a sanitized casino act. I want the artist in her element, creating something Vegas has never seen before.'"

A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. "I like the sound of that."

"I thought you might." Peter drops the sales pitch persona. This is the Peter few people see—the one who sometimes remembers he's human before he's a manager. "Look, I know the idea of staying put is foreign territory for you. You've been running since we released your first single. But I'm watching you burn out, Z. The spark that made you special—it's still there, but it's flickering."

His honesty is painful. We don't usually do vulnerability, not like this.

"Tours are brutal," I admit. "Amazing but brutal. And the constant pressure to evolve, to stay relevant... sometimes I forget who I am beneath the Zara Nova everyone expects."

"Exactly," Peter says, leaning forward. "Vegas gives you something you haven't had in years—consistency. Same stage every night. Same bed. Same surroundings. Within that structure, you might find the space to remember."

"Remember what?"

"The girl who wrote songs because she couldn't not write them. The one who performed because it was like breathing, not because seventeen thousand people paid three hundred dollars a ticket to see her."

The ocean breeze shifts, sending a wind chime on my deck into a chaotic melody. I close my eyes and listen to it, thinking about structure and chaos, about consistency and freedom.

"Ten months," I murmur, opening my eyes to meet Peter's gaze. "I could do ten months."

"Is that a yes?" he asks, unable to hide his excitement.

"It's a 'I want to meet Athena Stavros in person before I commit,'" I clarify. "Let's go to Vegas. I need to look her in the eye before I sign anything."

"No problem." Peter already pulls out his phone. "I can arrange that. When are you thinking?"

 

Chapter 2 — Diane

Silver clinks against bone china as my father works through his lamb. The Washington family dining room is a mahogany battlefield, my mother and father at opposite ends of the table, me positioned halfway between them.

"The Cunninghams are expecting you this Friday, Diane." My father doesn't look up from his food. Senator Richard Washington's statements have never required the weakness of eye contact to carry their weight. "Robert specifically mentioned how much Thomas is looking forward to seeing you again."

And there it is. I take a sip of Cabernet to mask my reaction. Thomas Cunningham. Second son of former FDA Commissioner Robert Cunningham. Harvard Law. Private practice specializing in pharmaceutical patents that his father conveniently oversees. Thirty-four, never married. Of course they're trying to set me up.

I set my glass down on its water ring. "Thomas Cunningham is looking forward to seeing me? That's interesting, considering we don't know each other."

"You were at the same fundraiser last spring," my mother interjects. Elizabeth Washington, née Spencer, raises her eyebrows a millimeter—her version of exasperation. "The Childhood Leukemia benefit at the Kennedy Center."

"I remember the event, Mom. I wrote the check. But I don't remember meeting Thomas."

"Well, he certainly noticed you." Her voice maintains the pleasant modulation she uses for junior league committees and congressional wives.

My father clears his throat, the sound echoing off the twenty-foot ceilings. The dining room, like everything in the Washington home, is designed to intimidate. Oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors judge us from gilt frames. The chandelier—crystal and brass, imported from somewhere impressive that my mother mentions to guests—hangs like a glittering guillotine. Even the table itself, which could comfortably seat eighteen, makes this dinner for three feel like a boardroom meeting with food service.

"The Cunninghams' dinner is not optional," he says. "It's a strategic gathering. Robert is positioning for the vacant seat on the Pharmaceutical Research Committee. Our foundation's education initiatives in STEM fields align with their interests."

I take another sip of wine. My father's never eaten a meal without a strategic objective in his life. His senate career spans three decades of calculated dinners and purposeful golf outings. The Washington Foundation—my daily professional home—exists primarily as an extension of his influence, neatly packaged with a tax deduction.

"I understand the strategic value," I reply, matching his businesslike tone. "I'm simply questioning why Thomas's interest in me is relevant to the foundation's STEM initiatives."

My mother sighs—a sound that conveys both disappointment and resignation. "Diane, darling, you’ve just turned thirty. Your biological clock—"

"Is a sexist construct designed to panic women into making life choices based on arbitrary timelines rather than personal readiness or desire." I finish for her, smiling pleasantly. It's an argument we've had since I turned twenty-five.

"Your father and I were married at twenty," she continues as if I hadn't spoken. "I had you at twenty-one. Our constituents—"

"They're Dad's constituents, not mine," I say, though I know it's futile. In the Washington family, everything belongs to everyone, especially political capital.

"The voters," my mother amends without missing a beat, "expect certain traditional values from the Washington family. Your perpetual singlehood is becoming... noticeable."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. We've been having this same conversation for years, but its frequency has increased to nearly monthly now. The milestone of my thirtieth birthday has apparently transformed me from "career-focused" to "concerning spinster" in the eyes of Virginia's conservative voting base.

"I'm busy running our foundation," I say, setting down my fork. "A foundation that, I might add, raised twenty-three million dollars last year, implemented educational programs in twelve states, and garnered positive press coverage in every major publication. My marital status hasn't seemed to hinder our success."

"No one is questioning your professional competence," my father says.

The unspoken "but" hangs in the air.

"The point is," he continues, "that the foundation's work and our family's position require a certain image. Stability. Continuity. Legacy."

The trinity of Washington family values. I've heard them invoked at every major decision point of my life—where I would attend school, what I would study, which job I would take after graduation. Always the family, never the individual.

"Thomas Cunningham comes from an excellent background," my mother adds. "His grandfather was Secretary of State under Nixon. His mother chairs three major charity boards. He's handsome and he’d make a wonderful partner for you."

Partner. As if marriage were a business merger, which, in my family, it essentially is. My mother and father's union was orchestrated by their parents, a combining of old Virginia money with political ambitions and New England connections.

"I have work commitments that weekend," I say, the lie forming instantaneously. "The foundation has potential donors in Las Vegas I need to meet with personally."

"Vegas?" My father's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. "Again? I thought you were there last month."

My mind races through our actual donor database. "The Meyerson Group. They're considering a significant contribution to our tech education initiative. Martin Meyerson made his fortune in hotel security systems before expanding into casino management software."

The details flow easily, plausible and specific enough to deflect suspicion. I've become adept at constructing these facades—lies that I can inhabit comfortably when needed.

"Surely someone else from the foundation can handle that meeting," my mother presses.

"They specifically requested me." Another improvised detail to reinforce the structure. "Apparently, Martin's daughter attended my panel at the Education Innovation Summit last fall. She was impressed."

My father frowns. "How significant a contribution are we talking?" he asks finally.

"Potentially six figures," I reply, confident in my fabrication.

"I suppose I could tell the Cunninghams dinner could wait," my mother concedes reluctantly. "Though I do wish you'd mentioned this earlier. Thomas is quite the catch. Well-connected, Ivy League—"

"And as interesting as unseasoned grilled chicken," I finish for her, allowing a rare moment of honesty to slip through.

My father's eyebrows lift fractionally. "You have met him, then?"

"If you say so. He's clearly not that memorable."

My mother's lips press into a thin line while the grandfather clock in the hallway chimes eight times. The sound provides a welcome interruption to the tension.

"I should check on dessert," she says, rising. She never actually prepares the food—they have staff for that—but she maintains the fiction of domestic involvement, particularly when conversations turn uncomfortable.

Alone with my father, I brace for a more direct interrogation. He sets his napkin beside his plate and studies me.

"Is everything alright, Diane?" he asks, his tone calibrated to extract information rather than express genuine concern. "Your mother worries. She feels you've become increasingly... removed from the family."

What he means is that I've become increasingly resistant to their matchmaking efforts. What began as gentle nudges has evolved into a full-court press. The narrative they've crafted for me—brilliant daughter, dedicated to the family foundation, who eventually settles down with an appropriate man from a good family to produce the next generation of Washingtons—is running behind schedule.

"I'm committed to the foundation and to this family," I say, reciting my loyalty pledge. "That hasn't changed."

"But something has," he persists.

Has something changed? I consider the question more seriously than I intended to. There's been a restlessness in me lately, a dissatisfaction that my occasional escapes to Vegas temporarily soothe but never fully resolve. Each time I return to D.C., to this house, to the foundation offices, the feeling intensifies—like wearing clothes that no longer fit properly.

"I'm just tired," I offer finally. "Maybe I need a break."

 

Chapter 3 — Zara

She's ten minutes late. I sip my champagne and check my watch again, confirming what I already know. Athena Stavros, owner of the Olympus Casino, is officially keeping me waiting.

No one has kept me waiting since I shot to fame. Not promoters, not record executives, not even the President during that White House performance last year. Yet here I sit, alone in a private corner of the Pantheon, feeling oddly... ordinary.

Movement catches my eye as Athena Stavros finally approaches, dressed in an impeccable white suit and white fedora hat. She walks with the confidence of someone who knows exactly the space they occupy in the world. Her dark eyes scan the restaurant as she moves, missing nothing, acknowledging staff with subtle nods.

When she reaches my table, she smiles and extends her hand. "Ms. Nova. Thank you for coming." Her voice carries an accent.

"Please, call me Zara," I say, taking her offered hand.

"Call me Athena. I'm sorry for being late. I was held up in a meeting. I take it my staff have made you comfortable?"

"Very much." I return her smile. The woman is striking. "Thank you for meeting one-on-one," I continue. "My manager wanted to tag along, but these conversations get so bogged down in details when the suits are involved."

Athena takes her seat opposite me. "I prefer it this way too. It's easier to talk without being interrupted every other sentence."

Her directness is refreshing. In my industry, people typically approach me with rehearsed flattery and transparent agendas. Athena simply observes me, attentive but not fawning, as a server pours her champagne.

"I've gone through your checklist," she says, getting straight to it. "I don't see any issues with the points you've raised. The Palestra can be transformed to your specifications, and our sound and lighting systems are state-of-the-art. Do you have any concerns from your side?"

I nod, pushing aside the barely touched salad I ordered earlier. "I do, but my concerns are more personal than professional." I pause, unsure how to express my thoughts without insulting her city. "I need to understand what I'm actually committing to. Ten months in Vegas is..."

"A long time," she finishes for me. "Especially if you're not used to desert living."

"Exactly." I'm relieved she gets it. "I've done the weekend performances, the awards shows, but settling here? I'm not sure I can handle the constant noise, the tourists, the artificial everything. And I enjoy being outdoors. I'm afraid I'll get cabin fever."

"If you decide to live at the Olympus during your residency, you'll have a private entrance," Athena explains. "We have an excellent penthouse suite with a spacious terrace and a small private pool."

"That sounds promising," I admit, imagining a sanctuary above the chaos of the Strip. "But what about when I need to escape? I'm used to having options."

"The desert is beautiful if you need to get away," she says, her expression softening with genuine appreciation. "Most people who visit never see beyond the casinos, but there's something almost spiritual about the landscape once you leave the city behind." A smile plays at the corners of her lips. "I'd be happy to show you around. I love driving."

Something in her tone shifts—a subtle lowering of her voice, a slight pause before the offer. Her dark eyes meet mine with quiet intensity, charged with an energy I recognize instantly from years of carefully navigating these waters. My pulse quickens as I reconsider her.

It's rare that I meet women who aren't fawning fans or industry rivals. Even rarer to encounter one who exudes such self-possession and doesn't seem intimidated by my status. And rarest of all—one who might share my closely guarded secret.

I lean forward, matching her body language. "Oh? You want to be my tour guide?" I let a hint of flirtation color my voice, watching carefully for her reaction. "I might take you up on that."

She doesn't pull back or look uncomfortable. Instead, her eyes linger on mine, and I feel that familiar thrill of connection—the silent recognition between women who understand each other without needing explicit words.

"And do you live here too?" I ask. "I bet you have a badass suite. I'd love to see it sometime, if we're going to be neighbors."

Athena hesitates and I watch as understanding dawns in her eyes. Suddenly I realize I've terribly misread the situation. The slight widening of her eyes, the almost imperceptible tensing of her shoulders—I recognize the signs of someone caught off guard.

"I..." she begins, but stops herself.

Heat rushes to my face as mortification sweeps through me. I've made a serious miscalculation, breaking my own cardinal rule of never revealing myself without absolute certainty. I force a laugh, though I feel like I might actually die of embarrassment.

"Oh God, I completely misread that, didn't I?" I bring a hand to my forehead, wishing the floor would open and swallow me whole. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were—" I stop myself before making this worse.

"No need to apologize," Athena says quickly. "And you're not wrong. It's just that there's... someone special in my life. I'm not sure where it's heading but..."

"Say no more." I hold up a hand. My usual poise abandons me entirely as I fumble for footing. "Professional boundaries restored. And can we please keep this awkward exchange between us? I think the champagne has gone to my head, and no one knows I'm... well, you know what I mean."

"Of course. Don't worry about it." Her manner is reassuringly unruffled. Then she surprises me. "But if you'd like to explore things other than the desert while you're here, I can help you with that. Discretion is my middle name, and I have a lot of successful and attractive single female friends who are equally discreet."

My eyebrows shoot up as I process what she's offering. This conversation has taken yet another unexpected turn.

"Wow," I say, trying to recover my composure. "The mysterious Athena Stavros runs an underground queer dating service too?"

Athena reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. She writes something on the back before sliding it across the table. "Not exactly, but I have connections." Her smile is enigmatic. "Anyway, the offer stands. That's my personal number. Please don't share it—I'm very private."

I take the card, turning it over in my fingers. It's surreal to be on the receiving end of this kind of discretion. "That's usually my line," I joke. "I'm supposed to be the one giving out my number with warnings about privacy."

We share a laugh, and Athena smoothly steers the conversation back to business, discussing rehearsal space and performance frequency. The blush on my cheeks still lingers; it's been a while since I've felt this embarrassed. I try to focus, but my mind keeps drifting to the implications of her offer. Who are these "discreet" women she knows? It's such a strange thing to say.

"What about the rehearsal schedule?" I ask, forcing myself to concentrate on what matters now. "I'll need at least three weeks of setup time before opening night."

"Not a problem," she assures me. "We can close the Palestra during the day for a full month before your premiere if needed. The space will be completely yours from nine to five."

Athena's phone vibrates on the table, and she glances at it. "I'm sorry," she says. "Would you mind if I quickly check this? It might be important."

"Of course. Go ahead," I reply, watching as she picks up her phone. She smiles as she reads whatever message has appeared on the screen.

"I take it that's good news?" I ask when she looks up again.

"Yes," she says, typing a quick response before setting the phone aside. "I'm sorry for the interruption. I'm all yours."

"Is that her? The special someone?" I ask, immediately kicking myself for being nosy. It's none of my business, but I can't help myself. I've only just met her, and I'm already way too fascinated with her personal life. Perhaps because I never met a woman who's more private than me. Someone who isn't fazed by me in the slightest.

Athena hesitates, then nods. "Yes."

"She's a lucky woman." I trace the rim of my champagne flute, contemplating. "I've always wondered what it would be like."

"What do you mean?"

"To explore that side of myself." I meet her gaze directly. "My whole life is decided for me down to who I'm dating."

"Have you had these feelings for a while?" she asks.

"Always." I pause, considering how much to reveal. "I kissed girls in college sometimes, but that was a long time ago. And then fame came knocking on my door. I'm grateful for that, but it also meant my days of experimenting were over, and I fantasize about dating women all the time." I study her for a moment before adding, "I wish I could be you for a day."

"Me?" She looks genuinely surprised by this. "I'm not sure I understand where you're coming from."

"There's this sexual confidence radiating from you," I explain. "I picked up the vibe immediately—that you're queer and completely comfortable with it. You own who you are."

Athena frowns and shakes her head. "Between you and me? I'm not as out and proud as you might think." Her confession catches me off guard. "I don't hide exactly, but I don't date in public either. The business pages feature me occasionally, and word travels. I've spent my life making sure my family in Greece doesn't find out, so I'm careful."

"You're not out to your family?"

"My sister knows now," she says. "Found out recently, actually. She's supportive, but my mother is traditional Greek Orthodox, so it's complicated." She takes a sip of champagne. "Sometimes I wonder what it would be like too. To walk through my casino with a woman on my arm."

"Huh." I tilt my head, reassessing her. "Who would have thought?"

"We all have our blind spots," she says with a small smile. "Areas where courage fails us, despite how strong we appear elsewhere." She leans back in her chair. "I think this residency could be good for you in more ways than one, and my offer stands on introducing you to some like-minded women. No pressure, no expectations, and certainly no headlines. Just... possibilities."

I smile as the idea of a real date settles over me like a new song taking shape—uncertain but thrilling, with melodies I haven't sung out loud yet.

"Possibilities," I repeat, savoring the word.

Athena's personal number burns like a dare against my palm as I slip the card into my purse.

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